Link by Link
by charlock221
Summary: Greg stepped back from the pair, holding up a small key. "You two are not being released until you sort out whatever the hell's going on between you." Sherlock and John stared daggers at him, the handcuffs linking the two rattling furiously as Sherlock tried to cross his arms.
1. Chapter 1

"Dear Lord, John, if you can't get your head around this basic concept then I despair of you, I really do."

"Well, if your Royal Highness could explain it to us mere peasants, we would be indebted, I'm sure."

"There's nothing _to_ explain, it's all there in front of you!"

Greg Lestrade sighed from where he was standing, leaning against the wall of a dead woman's garage, where the body of Hannah Baker was sprawled on the floor and Sherlock and John were snapping at each other above her.

In fact, they had done nothing but snap at each other ever since they'd arrived twenty minutes ago, and now that Greg thought about it, every time he'd seen the pair in the month since Sherlock had returned they were butting heads over something or other. It was completely unlike them, and though Greg knew Sherlock's reappearance was going to cause some turbulence between the two of them, he hadn't expected it to take this long for them to readjust.

Now, he didn't become a DI because of his good looks, and if there was one thing he knew about Sherlock and John, it was that they didn't _do_ feelings. They certainly didn't _talk _about feelings. It was this knowledge that caused Greg to surmise that there were a lot of pent up emotions between Sherlock and John; hurt on John's side and... well, he wasn't entirely sure _what_ Sherlock was feeling but he was certain that his stoic, aloof demeanour he was showcasing now was merely a facade. And this was causing the two of them to take out their frustrations on each other.

Greg didn't want to interfere, because normally if you left the pair to themselves they'd work out whatever they needed to work out in their own time, but he was sure that if they continued to argue, they'd end up losing contact with each other for good.

Turning to the PC beside him, who was watching the doctor and detective with some confusion, Greg tapped her on the shoulder.

John, meanwhile, was contemplating the idea of throttling Sherlock where he stood, and wondering if he had enough friends on the force to get away with it.

He sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just explain what the bloody goose has to do with all of this."

"It's _obvious_, John, why can't you _see_?!" Sherlock exclaimed raising his hands in frustration as he gestured around the garage.

"Because I'm stupid, clearly." John retorted acerbically. "_Explain it to me_." he enunciated.

"No, I'll leave you to work it out. It's blindingly obvious, it should take you no more than two days." Sherlock turned away, beginning to walk out. "Meanwhile, I need to go to–"

"Hey, Sherlock, solved it yet?" Greg interrupted with false cheer in his voice, clapping Sherlock and John on the shoulders as he peered down at the dead body and incidentally prevented them from leaving. He had felt now was a good time to interfere; he had worried that the murderous look on John's face could have resulted in two dead bodies, and he wasn't convinced he had enough friends in this room to cover it up.

The detective snorted. "Of course I've solved it and I'm appalled that you needed me to come in to aid you, Lestrade." he said.

"Well, John mentioned you wanted to get out of the flat, and this was the only case that looked interesting – by your standards – so I thought you'd want to come along."

"And I'm so glad you permitted me to 'come along', Inspector, this case has been riveting, really." Sherlock said sardonically. "Perhaps you'll call me next time you need to find a missing shoe, or you can't locate your keys."

"Sherlock, there's no need to be rude–" John reprimanded.

"Oh, don't start, John. Maybe the next time you speak it could be something intelligent for once."

"Alright, that's enough." Greg said loudly before John could reply with an acidic comment.

"Forget it, I'm going home." the doctor muttered, turning to leave.

"And I need to go to Bart's." Sherlock replied, also moving to go.

"Nope." Greg responded, and before John or Sherlock knew what was happening, he had gripped the doctor's right arm and the detective's left one, there was a quiet _snick_, and John felt cool metal enclose around his right wrist.

"What the hell?" he asked, glancing down at one half of a handcuff and then across at Sherlock, who was attached to the other half. "What are you doing?"

Greg stepped back from the pair, holding up a small key. "You two are not being released until you sort out whatever the hell's going on between you."

"Lestrade–" Sherlock began icily.

"No, don't bother. You're not getting free until I'm convinced."

"We're fine. There's nothing wrong." John said, trying to cross his arms before realising he couldn't without aggravating Sherlock. The detective yanked his arm back to where it was.

"Nice try." Greg said, smiling as the pair glared at him. "Now then, if you've solved it, Sherlock, perhaps you'd like to tell me what happened?"

Sherlock continued to glower at him, and without a word began to sweep dramatically out of the room... only to be halted by John, who had remained where he was and was watching the detective with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock was forced to stop suddenly, his arm being tugged back, and he turned to face John.

"Come, John, we're leaving." he said, moving his arm towards him as if to prompt John into leaving.

"Not until you tell us what happened." John said stubbornly.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, and it was clear that he was thinking of something to say. After a moment, he said, "I'm stronger than you. I'll be able to pull you along."

"I'd like to see you try." John responded.

He didn't try.

"I could dislocate your wrist and then get free."

John narrowed his eyes. "I dare you." he challenged quietly.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and looked away, admitting defeat. "The goose." he said sulkily.

"What about the goose?" Greg asked before John could interrupt.

"She was killed because of it."

"How come?" he asked.

"Because it's been displaced."

Everyone turned their heads to the frozen goose that, still packaged, rested upside down a few meters away from Hannah Baker's body."

"So, what, she and her killer fought over it?" Greg asked.

"Yes. For whatever reason, Hannah Baker was determined to defend this goose – look at the scratch marks on her wrists – and the killer was just as determined to get it. The question is, why?"

Greg moved over to the goose and picked it up, twisting it this way and that as he examined it. "I don't see anything unusual. John?" He held it out to the doctor, who reached for it with his un-cuffed hand. Sherlock, though, snatched it with both hands and subsequently forcing John's wrist to chafe against the metal cuff.

"Watch it." he muttered as the detective held the goose up to his eyes, John's arm raised to alleviate the pressure. Sherlock ignored him and ripped open the plastic, throwing it to the floor. Then, he stuck his arm inside the goose and appeared to rummage around for something. Greg and John exchanged a glance but didn't say anything.

After a few seconds the detective began to extract his arm, and when it was fully removed, Greg was shocked to see that Sherlock was holding something in his hand.

John, too, seemed to be unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "That's... a necklace." he stuttered.

"Yes, it's a necklace." Sherlock said with a slight eye-roll as he passed the goose to John.

The doctor noticed it. "Oh, like you knew there was going to be a necklace in there." he said sceptically, one-handedly putting the goose on a nearby table.

"There was obviously _something_ in it, it just happened to be Lady Morcar's sapphire necklace." Sherlock said in an off-hand manner.

"Lady... _this_ is her necklace?" Greg asked, peering closer at the jewellery. "How the hell did it get to be in this woman's goose?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hell yeah, I'm doing the Blue Carbuncle. Should only be a couple of chapters (I'm still writing it) and any reviews/favs/follows are greatly appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

"'You're not getting these off until you sort this out.'" Sherlock mimicked spitefully as he flopped onto the sofa face first.

"Hey watch it!" John yelped as his arm was yanked towards him, one foot tripping over the other as he stumbled forward.

"Who is Lestrade to tell me what to do? To force me to do something I don't want to?"

"Yeah, well I'm not particularly pleased about it either." John grumbled, shoving Sherlock's feet off the sofa and sitting down next to him.

"We shall have to find something to destroy the chain. Unfortunately, someone has taken my lock-picking kit–"

"Breaking into the morgue for body parts is not an acceptable use of that kit."

"–but I do have a hammer and chisel which I can use to break the chain–"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are not putting a hammer and chisel anywhere near my hand."

The detective sighed heavily. "Fine," he snapped. "There is a pair of bolt cutters in my bedroom we can use."

John also sighed. "Maybe we should talk, Sherlock, I think–"

"Nope, no time for mindless chatter John, I have a case to solve."

"What I had to say wasn't 'mindless', thank you very much."

"It can wait, John." Sherlock got to his feet and John stood up too before the handcuff chafed his wrist.

"Sherlock..." John said.

"Come on." the detective called walking towards the door, John following reluctantly. "I need to go to Scotland Yard and see what Lestrade has made of the case so far."

"It's been twenty minutes, Sherlock, he's probably only just sat down."

"Then I can speed the process up." He replied, trotting down the stairs with the doctor close behind him.

"I'm sure Lestrade'll be thrilled to see us so soon." John muttered.

* * *

><p>He was not thrilled to see them.<p>

Upon seeing the two entering his office, Greg slumped forward, his head banging against his desk.

"What could I have possibly gotten wrong in the half hour you were not here?" he asked into the wood.

"I need to know where Hannah Baker bought her goose." Sherlock announced. "Do you have her purse? It will most probably contain a receipt."

"It's probably with the rest of the stuff that was on her... Go ask Anderson." Lestrade said, not raising his head and waving them off in the direction of Anderson's desk.

Sherlock sighed and about-turned, dragging John after him. He spotted the evidence bag he needed and scooped it up without talking to Anderson, whose head snapped up from his work when he noticed someone taking the bag. He opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock was already walking back to Lestrade's office.

"Here." he said, opening the purse and pulling out a receipt. "Ryder and Sons Butchers'. Mount Street, bought yesterday. I'd say that was the place, wouldn't you?"

He didn't give anyone the chance to reply. "We'll go there now, then." he declared. John sighed but did not answer. Lestrade grimaced sympathetically.

* * *

><p>When the duo found <em>Ryder and Sons Butchers<em> they were met with a _closed_ sign on the shop door.

"It's Tuesday." Sherlock announced to the door.

"Well deduced." John retorted.

"Why would it be closed on a Tuesday?"

"Why not?"

"Because the owner would normally have given some sort of explanation." Sherlock snapped, frustrated. "And it's a week until Christmas, people will no doubt want to purchase geese and turkey and the like, so can they really afford to close unexpectedly?"

John rubbed his hands against the cold, looking up and down the street. "Try knocking? They probably live above the shop."

Sherlock looked up and then heaved a sigh, his breath emerging in a frosty cloud. "Fine." he said, and knocked loudly.

They waited.

"Knock again." John said. The detective refrained from commenting but did try again.

They continued to wait.

"Maybe they're asleep."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"Sick?"

"There'd be a note."

"Well, I don't know, Sherlock, I'm the only one making suggestions here, what do you think?" John sighed in exasperation.

"Can I 'elp you two?"

The pair turned to see a young man stroll up to them, wearing what was undoubtedly a butcher's overcoat.

"Do you work in this shop?" Sherlock asked, pointing up at the sign.

"Yeah, I own it. Sorry, but why are you 'andcuffed to each other?" he asked with a frown.

"Why is it closed?"

"I – er – went out for lunch. Who are you, exactly? And you didn't answer my question about the 'andcuffs."

"It's a bet." John interrupted. "And this is Sherlock Holmes. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions? We're with the police." He tried to smile his best reassuring smile. Based on the man's wary look though, the cold must have distorted it.

"Sure. C'mon in." He unlocked the door and led them inside, all three of them grateful to be in the warmth.

"So. What can I do for you?"

"Well, Mr...?"

"Ryder." The other answered. "James Ryder."

"Mr. Ryder. We're here about a goose you recently sold." Sherlock said.

"Right..." Ryder shifted, looking from one to the other. "What about it?"

"Do you know Hannah Baker?"

"'annah Baker? Should I?"

"You tell me. She was found dead this morning."

"And she bought a goose off me?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."

Ryder continued to look from one to the other. "What exactly does selling a goose 'ave to do with 'er murder?"

"A unique goose was beside her body."

"Unique...?"

"Yes."

"Unique 'ow?" Ryder asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Something to do with its innards. Regardless, did you sell her a goose?"

"Uh, I'm not sure, I'll 'ave to check the books." Ryder said.

Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

"Right, yeah, they're upstairs, I'll just be a minute." He moved to the back of the room and entered a door, then disappeared from sight.

"Any ideas yet?" John asked, looking across at Sherlock.

The detective was glancing behind him at a notice board on the wall. There was a photograph of Lady Morcar's missing necklace and underneath it a sum of money that would be paid to whoever found it. Sherlock twisted fully to face the poster and John circled the detective so that his arm wouldn't be bent awkwardly.

"I can't believe that was in a goose." John muttered, studying the photograph.

"Start believing." Sherlock muttered flatly.

John ignored his tone. "So, what, it accidentally got forwarded to this butchers and subsequently to Hannah Baker?"

"It would appear so."

"Which means whoever hid it in the first place traced it back to Hannah and killed her for it."

"Indeed."

"But who–" John was cut off suddenly and Sherlock turned when he felt his cuffed wrist be yanked towards the floor. His heart skipped a beat when he saw John on the ground, unconscious with blood running down the side of his face.

"John?" He knelt next to the doctor and was about to turn to see who had attacked him when he himself felt an excruciating blow against the back of his head. He slumped forward, landing next to John, unconscious before he hit the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up to the feeling of his chest being compressed, and he struggled to take in a deep breath. His head was throbbing painfully and he tried to reach it with his right hand but found it was being weighed down by something. Groggily, he opened his eyes, only to shut them again when strands of hair irritated them. He shifted and groaned, his head protesting loudly at that decision.

He flexed his left hand and moved it a little, finding it to be free. Keeping his eyes closed he blindly shoved at whatever was on top of him, but they soon opened when the object grunted. His vision was filled with black, curly hair, and John fought the urge to sneeze when strands fluttered at his nose.

"Mmph, Sh'lck." he slurred, pushing at the lanky detective. "Ge'off."

His head atop the doctor's chest, Sherlock groaned at the insisting hand, batting it away with his own.

"Stop it," John murmured. "Move over." Without waiting for a reply, he gave a final push and succeeded in rolling Sherlock off of him. He didn't roll too far, John noticed, the damned handcuffs made sure of that.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking around. They appeared to be in a basement of sorts. The floor was wooden and there was nothing else in there apart from Sherlock and John. There was clearly no central heating in there, too, for John's hands were bitingly cold, and he could feel his toes going numb. The ground he was laying on was chilled, as well, the doctor's clothes providing no warmth for his body.

"How should I know?" Sherlock muttered, covering his eyes with the crook of his free arm.

"Just asking." John responded.

"Well perhaps you could stop asking and think for yourself."

John sighed, looking up at the bare ceiling and wondering how long they had both been unconscious. He shifted to get at his back pocket and pulled out his phone, only to find that he had no signal. The time said 2 o'clock, indicating that the two had been down there for about an hour. John said as much to Sherlock.

"How illuminating." the detective replied dryly, moving his arm away from his face but keeping his eyes shut. John didn't respond.

Just then the door on the wall furthest away from them opened with a loud creak and James Ryder stepped in, still wearing his butcher's coat and looking very panicked. John nudged Sherlock but the detective did nothing, his eyes remaining closed. John decided to copy and also shut his eyes, pretending to still be unconscious and hoping that Ryder wouldn't notice that Sherlock was no longer on top of him.

He could hear Ryder pacing a few feet in front of them, and he wondered if the butcher had dragged the two of them in there single-handedly or if he'd had help.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps moved closer towards them and John concentrated on slowing his breathing and hoping Ryder didn't notice he was awake. The butcher was unpredictable, and by now John was pretty sure he had killed Hannah Baker, so he didn't want to do anything to aggravate the man.

Ryder stopped close to John and the doctor prepared for whatever was going to happen to him, but nothing came. Seconds later, though, he heard a grunt, followed by a shuffle, and then Ryder spoke.

"Wake up." the butcher growled. John's cuffed hand strained as Ryder grabbed Sherlock, and John fought every instinct that screamed at him to interfere.

"Mmph, yes?" Sherlock drawled.

"Look at me," Ryder hissed. "And tell me where the necklace is."

"M'afraid I don't know what you mean."

There was the sound of a slap, and Sherlock groaned. "Plenty more where that came from. Do I 'ave to repeat the question?"

"I heard you perfectly the first time."

"Don't be smart. Tell me, now. Do the police 'ave it?"

"Haven't a clue, sorry."

"Yeah, you will be." There was a thud followed by a short yelp, and John had the sickening feeling that Ryder had banged Sherlock's head against the floor. _Just wait_, he told himself_, wait for the right moment_.

"Got yourself in a right pickle here, haven't you James?"

"Shut up." Ryder muttered. John squinted through his eyelashes to see the butcher throw Sherlock back down to the ground and walk away, only to begin pacing in an agitated state.

"Murdering Hannah Baker, and on top of that you've kidnapped two people. Not looking good, is it?"

"You're not getting out of 'ere unless you tell me where that necklace is." Ryder said quietly, and with that he left, slamming the door behind him. Moments later the lock clicked.

_Damn_, John thought_, didn't get to punch him_.

"You okay?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at Sherlock, who was rubbing the back of his head.

"Fine." he replied. Gingerly, he sat up, and John did too, deciding that lying down wasn't doing much. His head was still pounding and he could only imagine how Sherlock was feeling.

"We're in his basement, in answer to your earlier question. I could hear him coming up and down the stairs."

"Bloody cold in here."

"Well yes, there's not much point in heating an empty room, is there?"

"Touché." John muttered.

The two sat in silence for a while; John tenderly checking his head wound, and Sherlock doing whatever the hell he was doing. The doctor looked across at him and sighed.

"Come here." he said, "Let me see your head."

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are. You've probably got a concussion and to top it off someone's just smashed your head against the floor. But you're peachy, I'm sure."

Sherlock was frowning to himself, and John was positive that he would have cross his arms if he could.

"He did not 'smash' my head." he muttered. "He tapped it."

"Come here." John repeated and Sherlock moved, leaning his head towards the doctor who cupped his face with both hands – Sherlock's cuffed hand dangling awkwardly – and gently turned him to the side so he could get a look at the back.

Silence reigned again as John examined Sherlock's head, gently palpating the edges of the wounds and every now and then asking the detective questions. Soon enough, though, the questions stopped and neither of them spoke. The wounds didn't look too deep, Sherlock would have a nice headache for the rest of the day, but he didn't appear to have too serious a concussion. The hospital would clarify that, of course, as soon as they got out of there.

"So explain it to me." John said. "I'm sure you've worked it out. Why did Ryder kill Hannah Baker?"

"It's simple."

"Please don't start that again." he growled.

Sherlock had the decency to at least _look_ chastised. "Ryder stole Lady Morcar's necklace."

"How stupid do you think I am?" John muttered. "Actually, don't answer that."

"I won't." the detective responded. "He stole the necklace, and I imagine he planned on selling it, only something panicked him. Perhaps the police were investigating the local area or something similar, but either way Ryder had cause to hide it."

"In a goose."

"In a goose, yes. Imaginative, I'll grant him, but idiotic when he chooses to sell said goose."

"He must have lost track of which one held the necklace."

"I had rather hoped that, else I despair of his intelligence."

"So, Hannah Baker bought the goose." John continued, turning Sherlock's head the other way.

"Yes, she bought the goose, and Ryder subsequently realised that he'd lost the necklace."

"And he went round everybody's house who had bought a goose in the last 24 hours, subtly asking if they'd found a sapphire necklace in their bird?"

"It would seem so."

John chuckled at the idea.

"A woman died, John."

"Yes, sorry." he replied, his chuckle subsiding. "Though, who are you to lecture me on morals?"

Sherlock didn't respond. "Eventually he tracked down Hannah Baker, and she had obviously found the jewellery, so she confronted him."

"Ending badly for her."

"Precisely."

"Christ." John murmured, and said nothing else. If Hannah hadn't died as a result of it, the case could have been written into a sitcom or something.

"Your hands are cold." Sherlock muttered, interrupting John's thoughts.

"Not much I can do about that." John replied. "What with it being December and all."

"I'll buy you mittens for Christmas."

"You never buy me presents." the doctor smiled. "And mittens?"

"Yes, mittens." Sherlock said, offering no explanation.

"Fine. I don't have any, so it's a very thoughtful gift, thank you."

"You're welcome." he mumbled.

John continued to smile slightly as he checked Sherlock's eyes. "Want to know what I've got you? Or have you deduced it?"

"I didn't think you got me anything."

John pulled away, frowning. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you don't like me."


	4. Chapter 4

It was said with such seriousness that it was impossible for Sherlock to be joking. John could do nothing but simply stare at his friend, wandering what on earth had put that idea in his head.

"What?" was all he was able to utter.

"It's obvious." the detective said matter-of-factly, drawing his knees to his chest.

"No," John said slowly, "No it's really not. What do you mean I don't like you?"

"Ever since I returned to London a month ago, you've been cold towards me. It's clear to anyone that our friendship has finished."

"That's why you've been snapping at me." John said, half to himself. "You think I'm going to leave, so you've started to detach yourself from me, _us_."

"You'll go sooner or later, I'm merely saving myself the trouble of having to readjust to life without you when you do go."

"I'm not leaving." John said quietly, still bewildered that Sherlock was convinced of it.

"Then why have you been angry towards me?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at the doctor.

"Because I am angry." he replied. "You left me, Sherlock. You left me alone for two years without telling me you were alive. Of course I'm angry."

"Yes, angry enough to leave." Sherlock said.

"No!" John half-shouted. "I'm not leaving unless you explicitly tell me you don't want me at Baker Street anymore."

"Then why are you _still_ angry? I came back a month ago, shouldn't you have sorted your emotional conflict out by now?"

John was hanging his head, looking down at the wooded floor. "You used to me feel useless sometimes, Sherlock, when we'd go out on cases." he said softly. "Nothing to make me doubt our friendship, but enough to wonder why you bring me on certain cases, when all I'd do was tell you how the victim died and then tag along and watch you solve the thing."

"You were never useless, John." Sherlock responded, just as quietly.

John nodded. "I know, and I soon got over that feeling. But then you jumped, and I'd never felt as helpless as when I was watching you fall from that rooftop. You were my best friend, and I wasn't able to see the signs that indicated you were suicidal. What kind of a doctor did that make me? What kind of a _friend_? Those two years you were gone were spent wallowing in self pity, wondering what I'd missed and wishing I'd been a better friend.

"And then you came back, waltzing into that bloody restaurant right in the middle of my date looking for all the world as if you'd simply been on holiday–"

"It wasn't a holiday." Sherlock interrupted.

"I know that now, yeah, and when I realised you had been taking down Moriarty's web I felt even more of a fool for trusting you and believing that I wasn't useless, that you valued my skills."

"I do–"

"But it doesn't look like that." John continued. "Leaving me here was the biggest stab in the back anyone's given me, and so this month has been spent trying to figure where we stand, and whether my best friend is still my best friend. That's why I've been cold, because I wasn't sure if _you_ wanted _me_ around anymore." he said, sighing and rubbing his forehead. "It's never going to be the other way 'round, Sherlock."

"... Best friend?"

"Yes, you klutz, you're my best friend. God." he exhaled, leaning against the wall. Sherlock followed suit, still looking slightly confused.

"I'm sorry." he rumbled.

"Yeah, me too." John sighed.

"For jumping, for not telling you, for–"

"Yeah, alright, I get it." John interrupted.

"Won't happen again." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

"Good."

The door banged open again and Sherlock and John looked over to see Ryder storming into the room, an angry look on his face. The doctor gave up on pretending to be unconscious, deciding that he wasn't going to let Ryder hurt Sherlock again.

"One more time, Mr. Holmes." Ryder growled. "Where. Is. The. Necklace?"

"Not telling." Sherlock said almost petulantly.

The butcher snarled and lunged for him, but John interfered, kicking him viciously in the gut and knocking him sideways. Ryder fell to his knees but got up quickly as Sherlock and John, too, simultaneously got to their feet.

Ryder, though, seemed to realise that he couldn't take on the two of them, so he ran back to the door, but Sherlock and John had noticed the open exit and had also begun to sprint towards it. Ryder was a few steps ahead of them as he reached the door, but Sherlock put on a final burst of speed and knocked him into the wall. John moved past Sherlock and was almost out of the room when Ryder stuck his leg out and tripped Sherlock, who was behind the doctor.

Sherlock fell, consequently pulling John down too because of the handcuffs. John's cuffed arm was yanked backwards and he yelled as he was forced to the ground.

Ryder was up instantly, stamping down on Sherlock's leg, a sickening crack resulting from it. The detective grunted, his face screwing up in pain as he tried to curl into himself. He opened his eyes and saw John getting to his knees, holding his right arm gingerly, only for Ryder to step forward and knee him in the face. John's head snapped back and he fell back to the ground.

Ryder grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat and pulled him close.

"I have to go somewhere." he growled. "But I will be back in four hours, and if you do not tell me who has the necklace I will kill you and your friend." He threw Sherlock back down and stepped over John, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Why don't you just tell him the police have it?" John asked, his voice distorted because of his hand holding his nose.

"Because as soon as I tell him, he'll have no use for us and will more likely than not kill us."

"By the sounds of it he's going to kill us anyway." John muttered. "Did he break your leg?"

"Feels like it." Sherlock said, grimacing as he looked at his leg.

"Come over here." The two of them shuffled over to the wall next to the door. Sherlock leant against it whilst John knelt opposite him.

"Keep your leg as still as possible, Sherlock." John commanded, going into 'doctor mode'. "Do not, under any circumstances, move it. Understood?"

"Yes." the detective said, closing his eyes and trying to control his breathing.

"Can't really do anything to prevent the swelling, though maybe this weather will help." John started to take off his coat, before realising that he couldn't because of the stupid handcuffs. Sherlock frowned at him.

"What were you doing?" he asked. "You just said it's cold, don't do that."

"I'm not. The handcuffs are in the way. Here, lift your leg." John helped him raise the broken leg and then moved Sherlock's other one underneath it so that they were crossed.

"Don't have anything to help elevate it so your other leg will have to do."

"Hurts." Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, I know. Just try to stay awake, please."

"S'cold."

"I know, Sherlock, I know. No going to sleep on me, okay?"

"Distract me, then." the detective replied. "Is your nose broken?"

"Doubt it, it's not bleeding and hasn't swelled too much. Can't know for sure until we get checked out at the hospital. Cracking headache, though." John sat next to Sherlock against the wall, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. There was a constant pounding in his head, and closing his eyes lessened it only slightly.

"How's your arm?"

"Painful." John answered, opening his eyes and looking down at it. "Think I twisted it, doesn't hurt enough to be broken. But I'd be most grateful if you kept your arm still so it doesn't move."

"I can do that." Sherlock said quietly, eyes closed.

"We can't go to sleep." John murmured, his eyes also closed.

"Mmm-hmm."

"You're probably in shock."

"Probably."

"The cold's a serious issue."

"Mmm, s'very serious."

John's head drooped. "Don't sleep." He fought to keep his eyes open but it felt like glue was keeping them together.

"I won't." Sherlock mumbled in response.

"Ryder's gonna come back."

"Mmm. We have to... preserve our en'gy."

"Yeah." John agreed.

"'nd sleepin' will... help."

"S'true."

"So... in con'lusion... pros outweigh... the cons."

John didn't answer. His head dropped onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"We sleep." Sherlock announced.

"S'for the best." the doctor responded.

"Yeah."

Sherlock's eyes closed soon after, his head resting atop John's as he lost consciousness.

**A/N: Dun dun duuuun**


	5. Chapter 5

Greg pulled up outside _Ryder and Sons Butchers_ and turned off the engine with a small frown. Next to him, Donovan rolled her eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Hmm?" he responded. "Nothing."

"You're pulling a face. What's up?"

"Nah, it's nothing." he said, waving his hand. "Just that I thought Sherlock and John had already been here. Sherlock mentioned it earlier."

"Yeah, well Sherlock probably deemed what he found out 'boring' and dashed off to do something else, dragging John behind him. Quite literally, if they're handcuffed together."

"They are." Greg said with a small smile.

"I'm just glad I'm not in John's place, that's all I'm saying." Sally said as they got out of the car.

"Yeah, me too." Greg chuckled. "Stay here, this shouldn't take too long." Donovan leant against the car as Greg opened the door to the butchers, only to walk straight into a young man rushing out.

"Oomph. Christ, sorry." Greg muttered, realising that he'd hit the door against the man.

The stranger, who looked to be in his early twenties, merely paled at the sight of Greg. He looked between him and Donovan, and then at the police car.

"How did you know?" he rasped, "I haven't called anyone yet." He looked unsteady on his feet, and Greg gripped his shoulders.

"Know what?" he asked with a frown. He looked back at Donovan, who shrugged. Glancing back at the man, he was alarmed to feel him shaking. "What's your name?"

"M-Michael. Michael Taylor." he stuttered. "D-Downstairs..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

"Alright," Greg supplied, cottoning on to what Taylor was trying to say. "I'll go downstairs and have a look, yeah?"

"Wasn't me." Taylor rushed. "It wasn't me, I promise."

"Okay." Greg said, beginning to worry. "Donovan's gonna stay with you while I go see what's happened. I'll be back soon."

He looked over to Donovan. "Call an ambulance. He's going into shock, and from what he's implying, we might need one anyway." She nodded in response and put her arm around Taylor, leading him to the car.

Greg entered the butchers wishing he had some sort of weapon on him, but he'd left his taser on his desk at the Yard. Ahead of him was a wooden door that had been left ajar, and as he moved closer he saw that it led to a set of stairs leading downwards. At the bottom of the steps was another door, also open.

"Hello?" he called optimistically, but no one answered. Cautiously, he began to make his way down, remaining as quiet as he could.

"Don't be a body, don't be a body..." he muttered to himself, fervently wishing that Taylor had not discovered a corpse. As he moved further downwards, the decreasing temperature became more and more apparent, and Greg briskly rubbed his hands together for warmth.

Eventually he made it to the bottom, and he slowly pushed the door open further. Inside was a bare room, but the only thing he could note was that it was _fucking freezing_. He wanted to be in there for as little time as possible and so he stepped in, did an about turn – scanning the room as he did – and made for the stairs again. A sight in the corner of the room to his left stopped him though, and he turned towards the two bodies huddled together, feeling as if someone had just thrown a bucket of ice over him.

"No. No, no, no, no, no." he muttered, rushing towards John and Sherlock and dropping to his knees. The pair of them were as white as snow, and both their lips were tinged blue. One of John's eyes was badly bruised and had swollen slightly, and he was also holding his handcuffed arm as if protecting it from further harm. His head rested on Sherlock's shoulder, whilst the detective had one leg stretched out and the other tucked underneath the outstretched one. His head rested atop John's, and Greg clumsily pressed his fingers against John's neck, praying for a pulse.

Thankfully, there was one, and Greg was even more grateful when he found Sherlock's, too. He quickly got up and rushed to the doorway.

"Donovan!" he yelled, and moments later Sally appeared at the top of the stairs. "I need blankets." he urged. "There's some in the boot of the car. I need as many as possible. And send the paramedics down here when they arrive."

She nodded and ran off, and Greg went back to Sherlock and John, nearly collapsing with relief when he saw John stirring.

"Hey," he said, grabbing the doctor's shoulder and smiling when he saw his eyes gradually open. "It's Greg, I've got you now. I've got you."

"Greg." John murmured, lifting his head and consequently causing Sherlock's head to drop onto the doctor's shoulder. His eyes were half open and trying hard to focus on him. "Han'cuffs?" he asked, weakly raising his handcuffed hand.

"God, yes, I'm sorry." He drew the key from his pocket and quickly removed the handcuffs, chucking them away.

"S'not you fault." John muttered. "We worked it ou'."

"Good." Greg choked a laugh as a loud _thump_ sounded behind him, announcing the blankets. He got up and collected them. "You two were driving me nuts."

John smiled, closing his eyes. "Sh'lck?" he asked.

"He's here, he's alive." Greg unfolded two of the blankets and wrapped them around John, before moving over to Sherlock with the remaining two blankets. "Ambulance will be here soon."

"His leg's broken." John mumbled. "Left one."

"Right, okay. What about you, are you alright?"

"M'fine." the doctor replied. "Jus' need to sleep."

"Fat chance." Greg muttered. "You're an idiot for doing so already."

"Sh'lock convinced me."

"I'm guessing you didn't need much convincing, either."

"Shu' up." John murmured with a smile. "S'cold."

"I know, John, we'll be out of here soon, don't worry."

"James Ryder..." he said quietly. "He killed Hannah Baker. Got us, too."

"What about Michael Taylor?" he asked.

"Who?" John replied, frowning at Greg, his eyes still trying to focus on him.

"Never mind." Greg said, dismissing Taylor from his list of those involved. "How do you feel?"

"Crap."

"I'm not surprised." The DI replied. "It's freezing down here." As if to prove his point, he rubbed his hands together.

"You don't say." John said dryly.

"Can you stand?" Greg asked, an idea popping into his head. "If I can get you upstairs, the heating's on so it's a hell of a lot warmer than it is down here." John was shaking his head, though.

"Can't move Sherlock, could do more damage to his leg." Greg got the _I'm not going without him_ vibe John was giving off, so he let up. He decided not to mention the fact that he was only planning on getting John upstairs, as one warm person was better than no warm people.

"Eyes open, John." Greg said sternly. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

"You said amb'lance would be here soon." John argued. "Means that I can sleep."

"That's rubbish logic. No, don't you dare!" he shouted as the doctor's eyes drifted shut.

"Make sure... par'medics have more blankets... Sh'lck needs 'em..." He fell limp shortly afterwards and Greg gripped the edges of the blankets, ensuring he didn't slide to the side.

"John. John!" There was no reply. "Dammit!" he shouted. He looked across at Sherlock and felt for his pulse again. It was present, but very slow.

"You arseholes had better not die." he growled. "You," he shook John slightly. "You've told me what your sister's like when she's angry, and I will be very pissed off if I experience that if you die.

"And you," he pointed at Sherlock. "I have no intention of feeling the wrath of Mycroft Holmes so _wake up_!"

No one answered him, and he hung his head in defeat, still gripping the edges of John's blankets.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up to a loud beeping noise somewhere off to his right, and he frowned slightly, trying to work out what it was. He didn't want to open his eyes in case he was in danger, and apart from the beeping, he was unable to hear anything else, suggesting that the situation he was in was highly treacherous–<p>

"Open your eyes, you drama queen."

Sherlock did so, greeted by the sight of Greg Lestrade sat next to his bedside, and as he looked around he realised he was in a hospital. The events of what had happened previously came back to him, and he slowly turned his head back to face Lestrade, his expression adopting one of loathing.

Greg met him with crossed arms. "Don't look at me like that. I already apologised to John about the handcuffs." he said. "Not my fault if you weren't present for it."

"I rather think it was your fault inspector." Sherlock rasped. "Indeed, if I had not been handcuffed, it would have been simple for the two of us to incapacitate one man. I assume you've caught him?"

"Yes, we've caught him. He's in court as we speak. Won't be getting out for a long time, I reckon. Lady Morcar has been reunited with her necklace, too."

"Good." Sherlock replied, leaning against his pillow and relaxing, grateful for the presence of morphine that was dulling the pain.

"Where's John?" he asked, suddenly aware that the doctor was not here. "Is he alright?" He began to sit up, ready to get out of bed, but Greg held him back.

"He's fine, you nutter, lie back down." Sherlock conceded, and Greg sat back down.

"He's in the room next door. Sprained his right arm and he's got some nice bruises, but that's it. Better off than you, anyway." he said with a pointed look at his left leg, held in a thick cast.

"Broken?" Sherlock asked, and Greg nodded.

"A few months and it'll be right as rain." The DI said, and Sherlock harrumphed.

There was a knock at the door, and John stepped in. His right arm was in a sling and, as Greg had said, his eye was blackened, but other than that he appeared to be alright.

"Sherlock," John greeted with a smile, stepping closer. "How are you feeling?"

"I'll leave you to it." Greg said, getting to his feet. "Got paperwork to do at the Yard, and I've been putting it off by staying here."

"See you later, Greg." John responded as he sat in the DI's spot. "And thanks, by the way. You know, for finding us."

"Yeah well don't do that again." Greg replied. "Scared the shit out of me." He left the room, the sound of laughter following him, and he couldn't help but grin in response. He was thankful the pair had worked out whatever was going on between them, and he only hoped Sherlock didn't decide to take revenge on him for his intervention.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Finished! Thanks to all who read it, and I'd love a review to know what you thought! :)  
><strong>


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